'Tony, I wish there was something I could say ...'
'D'Usseau s-said it all. It's b-better that I f-found it out now instead of t-ten years from now, isn't it? I've got to g-get out of this town.'
'Wait there for me, darling. I'll leave Johannesburg tomorrow and we'll go back to New York together.'
'All right,' Tony said. He replaced the receiver and turned toward Dominique. 'I'm sorry, Dominique. You picked the wrong fellow.'
Dominique said nothing. She just looked at him with eyes filled with an unspeakable sorrow.
The following afternoon at Kruger-Brent's office on Rue Ma-tignon, Kate Blackwell was writing out a check. The man seated across the desk from her sighed. 'It is a pity. Your son has talent, Mrs. Blackwell. He could have become an important painter.'
Kate stared at him coldly. 'Mr. d'Usseau, there are tens of thousands of painters in the world. My son was not meant to be one of the crowd.' She passed the check across the desk. 'You fulfilled your part of the bargain, I'm prepared to fulfill mine.
Kruger-Brent, Limited, will sponsor art museums in Johannesburg, London and New York. You will be in charge of selecting the paintings—with a handsome commission, of course.'
But long after d'Usseau had gone, Kate sat at her desk, filled with a deep sadness. She loved her son so much. If he ever found out... She knew the risk she had taken. But she could not stand by and let Tony throw away his inheritance. No matter what it might cost her, he had to be protected. The company had to be protected. Kate rose, feeling suddenly very tired. It was time to pick up Tony and take him home. She would help him get over this, so he could get on with what he had been born to do.
Run the company.
For the next two years, Tony Blackwell felt he was on a giant treadmill that was taking him nowhere. He was the heir apparent to an awesome conglomerate. Kruger-Brent's empire had expanded to include paper mills, an airline, banks and a chain of hospitals. Tony learned that a name is a key that opens all doors. There are clubs and organizations and social cliques where the coin of the realm is not money or influence, but the proper name. Tony was accepted for membership in the Union Club, The Brook and The Links Club. He was catered to everywhere he went, but he felt like an imposter. He had done nothing to deserve any of it. He was in the giant shadow of his grandfather, and he felt he was constantly being measured against him. It was unfair, for there were no more mine fields to crawl over, no guards shooting at him, no sharks threatening him. The ancient tales of derring-do had nothing to do with Tony. They belonged to a past century, another time, another place, heroic acts committed by a stranger.
Tony worked twice as hard as anyone else at Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He drove himself mercilessly, trying to rid himself of memories too searing to bear. He wrote to Dominique, but his letters
were returned unopened. He telephoned Maitre Cantal, but Dominique no longer modeled at the school. She had disappeared.
Tony handled his job expertly and methodically, with neither passion nor love, and if he felt a deep emptiness inside himself, no one suspected it. Not even Kate. She received weekly reports on Tony, and she was pleased with them.
'He has a natural aptitude for business,' she told Brad Rogers.
To Kate, the long hours her son worked were proof of how much he loved what he was doing. When Kate thought of how Tony had almost thrown his future away, she shuddered and was grateful she had saved him.
In 1948 the Nationalist Party was in full power in South Africa, with segregation in all public places. Migration was strictly controlled, and families were split up to suit the convenience of the government. Every black man had to carry a bewy-shoek, and it was more than a pass, it was a Lifeline, his birth certificate, his work permit, his tax receipt. It regulated his movements and his life. There were increasing riots in South Africa, and they were ruthlessly put down by the police. From time to time, Kate read newspaper stories about sabotage and unrest, and Banda's name was always prominently mentioned. He was still a leader in the underground, despite his age. Of course he would fight for his people, Kate thought. He's Banda.
Kate celebrated her fifty-sixth birthday alone with Tony at the house on Fifth Avenue. She thought, This handsome twenty-four-year-old man across the table can't be my son. I'm too young. And he was toasting her, 'To m-my f-fantastic m-mother. Happy b-birthday!'
'You should make that to my fantastic old mother.' Soon I'll be retiring, Kate thought, but my son will take my place. My son!
At Kate's insistence, Tony had moved into the mansion on Fifth Avenue.
'The place is too bloody large for me to rattle around in alone,' Kate told him. 'You'll have the whole east wing to
yourself and all the privacy you need.' It was easier for Tony to give in than to argue.
Tony and Kate had breakfast together every morning, and the topic of conversation was always Kruger-Brent, Ltd. Tony marveled that his mother could care so passionately for a faceless, soulless entity, an amorphous collection of buildings and machines and bookkeeping figures. Where did the magic lie? With all the myriad mysteries of the world to explore, why would anyone want to waste a lifetime accumulating wealth to pile on more wealth, gathering power that was beyond power? Tony did not understand his mother. But he loved her. And he tried to live up to what she expected of him.
The Pan American flight from Rome to New York had been uneventful. Tony liked the airline. It was pleasant and efficient. He worked on his overseas acquisitions reports from the time the plane took off, skipping dinner and ignoring the stewardesses who kept offering him drinks, pillows or whatever else might appeal to their attractive passenger.
'Thank you, miss. I'm fine.'
'If there's anything at all, Mr. Blackwell...'
'Thank you.'
A middle-aged woman in the seat next to Tony was reading a fashion magazine. As she turned a page, Tony happened to glance over, and he froze. There was a picture of a model wearing a ball gown. It was Dominique. There was no question about it. There were the high, delicate cheekbones and the deep-green eyes, the luxuriant blond hair. Tony's pulse began to race.
'Excuse me,' Tony said to his seat companion. 'May I borrow that page?'
Early the following morning, Tony called the dress shop and got the name of their advertising agency. He telephoned them. 'I'm trying to locate one of your models,' he told the switchboard operator. 'Could you—'
'One moment, please.'
A man's voice came on. 'May I help you?'
'I saw a photograph in this month's issue of Vogue. A model advertising a ball gown for the Rothman stores. Is that your account?'
'Yes.'
'Can you give me the name of your model agency?'
'That would be the Carleton Blessing Agency.' He gave Tony the telephone number.
A minute later, Tony was talking to a woman at the Blessing Agency. 'I'm trying to locate one of your models,' he said. 'Dominique Masson.'
'I'm sorry. It is our policy not to give out personal information.' And the line went dead.
Tony sat there, staring at the receiver. There had to be a way to get in touch with Dominique. He went into Brad Rogers's office.
'Morning, Tony. Coffee?'
'No, thanks. Brad, have you heard of the Carleton Blessing Model Agency?'
'I should think so. We own it.'
'What?'
'It's under the umbrella of one of our subsidiaries.'
'When did we acquire it?'
'A couple of years ago. Just about the time you joined the company. What's your interest in it?'
'I'm trying to locate one of their models. She's an old friend.'
'No problem. I'll call and—'
'Never mind. I'll do it. Thanks, Brad.'
